Unexpected
by Siha Krios
Summary: 30 yrs after Choice of the Heart/Enduring Love 'The road to evil is paved with good intentions.' This is truer for none than a young Russian man trying to regain his honor even if he is the only one who knows of his evil. Turian girl on the run on Palavn
1. Antithesis

**I do not own anything originating from Mass Effect series. They are the sole property of Bioware. The characters and ideas are a collaborative effort of myself and my dear friend nuttex. We hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Unexpected**

Space is only empty between the wonders that fill it. The galaxies far beyond the Milky Way twinkle in the back like tiny diamonds displayed on a jewelers cloth. The quiet humming song of each world is lost beyond the atmosphere to the void. Life is slowly reclaiming it's right to exist. The road is not easy and the path is ill lit. Those that remain pioneer a new beginning for the entire galaxy. It is no small task and the obstacles prove challenging. The long war against the Reapers ended more than three decades ago, yet the wounds remain un-healed and new wounds are made. The galaxy may yet parish as it slowly bleeds the struggle for survival.

* * *

The dim lights shine as the sun in his face when the alarm on his watch beeps and activates the sound triggers. Groaning he rolls over and fumbles with the family heir loom on the bed side table.

"Ещё одно раннее утро, Дедушка?" He asks, looking at his grandfather's watch as if he were complaining about the early start directly to the old man.

"Я думал мы не собирались рано вставать." (I thought we weren't going to wake up early.) He grumbles, then rolls out of the bed and clasps the swiss made antique to his thick wrists.

"Ah, it is just as well. After all, I have no девушка to cling to."

The young man heads for the shower. He doesn't know why he puts on the watch only to remove it to cleans himself, but it has been his habit for many years, one of just a few he keeps to for his sanity. He sets the watch down with care of habit on the metal shelf over the sink with a clank. The water starts as soon as he enters within the clear glass walls. It's already warm. It was not a large apartment, but it held all the most luxurious amenities. Most people would enjoy the refinement no matter how it was earned. For Alexander Nechaev, however, every comfort is a reminder of the suffering others were at that very moment enduring for his selfishness.

The water is not soothing, as it should have been. The towel is rough and scratchy though made of the softest materials. The soft lighting is harsh in his eyes. Instead of the handsome reflection he should see staring back at him in the mirror, he only sees the scar that mars his features. He puts the towel over his back to hide the tattoo of his family crest so as to avoid catching a glimpse of in any reflective surface. He is not worthy of the honor to carry it upon his skin. Alex takes the watch from the shelf. The sound of it sliding over the shiny gunmetal surface grates on his hearing. He puts it on, another honor he does not deserve. He looks down at the watch then moves across the room to the small dresser. Duplicates of the same military style shirt and trousers lay inside in three different colors; dark grey, black, and oxford blue. He selects the blue shirt and grey slacks that day. He needs to look his best, even when he has nothing to do.

The list he keeps on the top of the dresser at all times reminds him that he, in fact, has much to do. The names of everyone he betrayed. If he scrolls through the list he will see the image of a woman he knew long ago. He does not look at it anymore. The pain is buried deeply enough now that he can resist the urge. His hand hovers over the data pad, then takes the gun out of the dewar instead. He tucks it in the old style leather holster and straps it about his hips. It earns him stares to dress the way he does, but he is Русский, and he does not need the petty одобрение others. His concerns lie in earning back the honor of the family name, even if it is only for himself. It will be for his children if he allows himself the pride of a family of his own. It's hard to find a good woman in a galaxy of every species frantically trying to increase the numbers of it's own kindred. Thanks to the infamous Spectre Nihlus Kryik and Captain Sonya Shepard there was a new race added to the frenzy. It remained nameless, belonging to neither humanity or turian cultures even decades from the time of it's creation. Decades later the features that define them as being different have not been breed out. The Hybrids were here to stay, capable of mating with any other species. The asari are not happy about the competition.

Alexander pauses by the mirror, but he doesn't bother to look into it. He knows what he will see in the hard, dark eyes that were once his own. He strings up his black military boots and secures the combat knife in it's hidden sheath. Whatever awaits him this day he will be ready.

* * *

Palavan is hot, but this isn't new. It is always hot on the radiated world, but not intolerably so. Akallys hides behind a stack of crates waiting for the back doors of the kitchen to open. It will be her opportunity to sneak inside and steal some food. It shames her to live this way, but she has little choice. The wealthy and powerful name of Kammen is no longer such. The batarians have seen to that quite effectively. It has been years since she has slept in something better than a cot in a shelter. The dirty looks, the disapproval, the snide comments as she passes on the street ware on her. Being the only surviving member of her family and being too young to have yet received her tattoos when the tragedy befell her house, she was often turned away from the shelters or the charities. A bare-face is not an easy life on the turian home world. Her last hope rests on finding a way off of Palavan. If she can find others like herself or if she can find the Hybrids, perhaps then she will find a home again.

The door opens. Akallys' attention snaps to the polished knob that has dulled over time. She waits for the cook to throw out the trash and slip back inside. She is limber and thin. Her body has been trained through experience and hunger to be quick for survival. Talons like the head of a serpent lashes out and silently catches the handle. She lets the door follow it's natural gravity to close, but not shut. She waits and listens for the foot steps on the other side to move away. She may have to crawl like an insect to slip inside, but the reward of nourishment just out of reach is enough to drive her past her fear. She slips her lithe form through the thin crack as she opens the door. The restaurant is closed and all of the employees are busying themselves with clean up and morning preparations. Only a few steps away is a row of roasts, thawing for the next days breakfast orders. She tentatively steps forward, careful to keep her talons from clicking on the smooth hard floor. She can smell the sweet scent of the meat on the sanitary counter, almost tasting it's decadence. She grabs two and runs out the door. By the time the metal slams shut against the painted frame she is nearly a block away. Her only thoughts are of finding a safe corner in which to hide and gorge herself on the rare treat she has earned this evening.


	2. Raw

There is a constant drip of water in one corner. In the other a matted nest of scrap cloth and anything else soft she could find is walled in by empty crates for a bed. It isn't much, but it is her home, at least this week. She walks to the nest to engorge herself on her pize, unaware of the hungry eyes watching her from the darkness above her humble abode at the end of a lost and dark alley. Akallys has always thought of home as a place where she is safe. If the world had come to an end she had been sure she would be just fine inside the walls of her families estate, until the batarians had come and taken everything from her. The first double set of eyes drops down on her from above yet another home being invaded, she doesn't see the homeless alien who is just as hungry as she is. She sees a face that could have been one laughing at her as he came at her with a knife and loosening pants. This batarian is not going to take anything from her this day, least of all her meal. The meat is tender, but a cold roast hits hard when it is swung like a club across the unsuspecting face of the starving male who is little more than bone. As the homeless alien drops to the cold stone his face shines with the juices from the meal he sought to take for his own. Akallys looks down at him at first with disgust, then with pity as she focuses on the sagging skin and protruding cheek bones in his face that tell the story of his slow journey to impending death. Her heart hardens and she rips a bite of the raw meat from the now tenderized side of roast in her fist. Her eyes narrow as she chews. The last breath of the batarian leaves his lips in a surrendering hiss. Akallys steps over the body toward her home. She considers the possibility that she may have to move, but the corner of this back ally near the cloth processing factory has been a safe haven from the gangs and other scavengers for nearly two weeks now. It would be a shame to have to move. This is the longest she has stayed in one spot and it is beginning to feel like home and not just another corner in a dirty alley. She decides to stay one more night, then she must move on. This corner isn't safe any more.

* * *

Her belly is distended and aches, full of meat from both roasts. Akallys moans in her sleep, wrapped in scrap material from the near by factory. the juice is still fresh on her mouth and soaks into the fabric as she sleeps. The worries of her life trouble her dreams. She does not sleep well this night, tossing and turning, tangling herself in the nest of colored scrap. When she wakes it is not to the steady rhythmic dripping of the water from the roof of the building, but to the click of a gun in her face.

"We know you have been avoiding us."

The deep voice of a uncharacteristically short turian carries through the dead air to her on the other side of the pointed gun. The man who stands over her is one who is Caporegime to the Boss of the local gang that charges any in their territory for the right to scavenge and sleep there. Akallys does not, nor has she ever, 'paid' anything to the group of self appointed dictators of whatever streets they claim as 'theirs'. She does not intend on starting now.

"I am not avoiding you, Illon."

"It's Mr. Horatius to you, vermin!"

"You don't scare me." Akallys retorts and shoves the gun barrel out of her face. "I don't recognize your authority or that of that foolish 'boss' of yours. You're all a pack of inbreed bastards who can't steel their own food."

Her rebellious words were rewarded by a quick slap to the face with the same barrel she'd pushed way. Blue blood sprayed the nest in which she sat and stained her jaw. Akallys looked up at Illon with venom in her eyes.

"You'll loose more than a few drops of blood if you speak like that again. I'll not tolerate such insolence. You owe Boss back pay for a life time of sneaking around in his territory steeling what rightfully belongs to him!"

"I owe that ass hole nothing."

Akallys spits and pulls herself out of the nest and climbs out of her shelter past him to stand in the ally. She crosses arms defiantly as she stands there, resisting the urge to run. Caporegime Horatuis glares at her and gives the silent order with a nod of his head to take her captive. The other four turians and one batarian move in with sneers on there faces. After all, what can one bare faced girl with no biotics to speak of possibly do to resist them? Akallys sees their intentions in their eyes. The lustful predator that lives in every man glares out at her from their dark, glinting orbs. She waits for them to get close so they can see the mask of defiance she wears. She waits until they are almost close enough that they can catch her and she holds her glare. When she is just out of their reach she lunges toward the open end of the ally and runs. Her stride is long and her feet are quick. She hears the angered shouts behind her. Orders for pursuit are not necessary. She knows they will give chase. She knows the ally ways better than they. She must to have avoided them for so long. But now her time of dodging them at their master was running short. Soon she would run out of places safe enough to sleep for the night. She had to find a way off of Palavan now or surrender to the gangs whims. The latter was not an option. Akallys takes the next available right turn. She has to get inside the space dock and onto a ship. It doesn't matter where it's going, as long as it's leaving Palavan.


	3. Shadows

The space port has not yet come to full vitality in the early morning hours. A few ships arrive and depart to varying locations, none of which are the Citadel, but that does not yet matter. For Akallys the only destination is anywhere but where she is currently. She only needs to board a ship that is leaving this planet. As she hides in a dark corner behind a stack of crates, the young female turian unconsciously holds her breath while her heart beats hard in her chest. The gang that woke her so rudely that day had not yet passed by in search of there lost quarry, but that does not mean they are not near by. A few meters away a small frigate is preparing to launch. The crew appears to be largely human, but un-uniformed. Civilians. Probably traders or merchants. Akallys warily looks around from between two crates to insure the cartel has not made it's way into this hangar. From her thin viewing port she can see only dock workers and their clients busy with perpetrations for the day and whatever other tasks they may be assigned.

The floor is cold despite the climbing temperatures outside as she crawls along the crates toward the frigate. The ship is old and needs new paint. The ID numbers are barely legible from the years of ware as if this ship had once seen battle. But that wasn't important. It only mattered that this boat could take her off Palavan. Wherever she landed would be the next step toward her goal of reaching the Citadel. Even that was only the beginning. She would have to convince the hybrids to help her, the only race that seemed willing to help anyone these days. So many years since the Reapers had tried to destroy the galaxy seemed to have effectively erased the unity it had temporarily provided among the many races. The history was not forgotten, only ignored. Too many petty grievances tore the new society to pieces before it had really begun and everything was almost as it had been before, with the exception of the hybrids. If nothing else, their presence was a jolting reminder to all who saw them that would desire separation and promote hate that love between enemies was possible. Peace was possible. While it was an inspiring thought, it didn't feed, shelter or clothe Akallys and so she cared little for the symbolism of the ones she sought. She only cared that the ramp to the frigate was still open and unguarded, though it was still an exposed 30 yards away.

Akallys scans the bay. No eyes seem to be concerned with the corner of the dock where she hides. Beads of sweat form on her bare skin in the chill air. Her pupils shrink to pin heads as she leaves the cover of the crates keeping to the shadows as she crosses the space, wary and alert for any that might spy her presents there. The thin fabric of her ragged dress clings to her form like cheese cloth on wet dough. In fact her legs feel as though they may simply turn to mush as she nears the ramp. She ducks under and listens to hear if anyone is inside, perhaps shuffling the cargo or just standing around while the boss is away. She hears not a sound and dares to slip out of the shadows and into the sterile light the pours our of the ships cargo bay. At that moment a group of men appear inside the loading dock. Their suits give them away faster than their eyes adjust to the change in light. Akallys scrambles up the ramp, her heart feeling as though it has stopped beating all together as she narrowly misses being spotted by one of the cartel. A stack of crates secured just inside the door in the far right corner provide her with a quick hiding spot. Moments latter several crew members are standing at the top of the ramp. She can hear shouting outside the ship. One of the voice she recognizes immediately as 'Mr.' Horatius.

"We need to check your ship for stole-aways. We have a fugitive and our Boss wants her found. It would be wise of you to cooperate with us."

"I don't think so."

The casual decline came in the form of a gruff sounding female voice. Akallys assumed it was the captain.

"This is my ship, not some dog in yer little game ye can just poke at wheneva the feelin' takes ya. I've been cleared by the authorities and the dock foreman. So shove off ya dinosaur. I don't taken no orders from you or yer 'Boss'."

Akallys liked her already. She smiles to herself imagining the look on Horatius' face. She wasn't far off from the reality.

"Oh, and if you try to shoot me..." The echo of a boot on the ramp played as an underlining threat, "You'll be the one running instead of the one chasing."

"Big words for a tiny human female and a beat up ship." Horatius rebuked.

"Well, that's a chance you'll be taken if you got the quads t' try, ain't it."

The captain didn't wait for a reply as she mounted the ramp and let it close up behind her. The crew said nothing and went about the final preparations, heading off to their stations. Akallys chanced a peak from behind the crates to get a look at the human that would stand up to the local gang. She wasn't a tall woman, nor a very pretty one to look at with short stringy hair the color of dirt and a face that could have been an old man's. But when her eyes flashed over and met Akallys' the piercing blue of them made the blood in the turian's veins halt in it's flow. But the captain merely grinned ever so slightly and left the cargo bay in an elevator on the far side of the room. Akallys didn't allow herself to move or breath normally until she felt the momentary nausea of the frigate jumping into FTL.


	4. Market

The Citadel was as busy as ever. No surprises there. Alexander took his usual path to the market gleaning any information that may be useful from conversations he passes. Nothing new or interesting catches any special attention. The usual mutterings of hustling shoppers and traders, both legal and not. None of it is anything he needs or a lead to follow. He has already filtered through the muck to track down the crime bosses identities and contacts to see if any of them lead to a target on his list. A few did and were eliminated, but none of them were on the top five. Alexander takes a casual turn down a narrower hall to the less busy part of the market. Collectors selling there collections, old men unwilling to bargain for there wares, minority species necessities and such were the trade in this ignored section of the market and at the end nearly invisible for it's obscurity and unpopular 'atmosphere' nestled his goal like a dieing rat in the corner of the kitchen. The air smells distinctly more metallic and oily compared to the rest of the Citadel. Old weaponry, mostly guns, and armor littered the tables and lined the walls. Old camouflage nets and tents were being used for decor, but were clearly marked for sale should any patron so decide that he must have it for his own. One could tell which items the old collector didn't genuinely want to part with because they were grossly over priced. Alexander often wondered why the старик set them out at all if he was so loathed to part with them.

"Hello there!"

A loud, yet worn voice called from the back of the shop. Alexander looked up to see the aged turian emerge from the stock rooms.

"How can I help you today? I've lots to choose from, as you can see, and an extensive knowledge of all human weapons tech. Why my great great ..."

Alexander promptly cut off the impending family history lecture with a raised palm and a distracted glance at a six-shooter in near mint condition on a table near by. It was unpriced.

"Ah, that one was a gift to my great great great.." the store owner began excitedly only to be quieted by the hand again. His mandibles fluttered, but he kept his peace.

Alexander's dark eyes left the metal sheen of the ancient weapon to look at the turian who collected and sold old human militia. Mostly he just collected and shared stories... occasionally by polite force. He noted the turian's irritation and his hunched back, gnarled with the turian version of arthritis.

"Why do you collect old human weapons?" Alexander finally asked. His strong accent made it difficult for the translators and it took a few extra seconds for the turian to decipher what his potential customer was asking him.

The turian's brow knitted together then suddenly lifted. His mandibles spread in a grin and Alexander realized with remorse that he'd just invited another long speech. He came here almost every week just to see what else the старик had managed to find, and occasionally his leasure interest lead him to a potential lead to cross another name of the list. This time, however, all he got was the ramblings of an odd, old turian who was probably old enough to have lived through the original Reaper conflict. He could have been the offspring of Benezia and Saren themselves.

"So I started my collection with that very same piece my father had shot his first fellow turian with as a reminder that humans can be a better ally than your own people. You see, young male, it's not the species that is a friend to you or I, but the guts under the plates that makes us all the same... even if some of us have less or smaller parts than others."

The turian gave Alexander what was surely meant to be a knowing wink as to suggest whatever humans might consider to be important to be large to the females in his case was so. Alexander decided to simply nod, thank the turian for his time and leave before another long story came pouring out like bile from a drunkard. He nearly trampled over a unusually small salarian on his way out who immediately became overly offended at the near accident. Alexander didn't have half a second to mumble and apology before the salarian, who was hardly more than a meter tall squeaked up at him with fierce red ringed eyes.

"Watch where you're treading, human! Not all of us who are smaller than you can be dealt with by your boot! Watch where you tread! I know batarians who'd love to make slaves out of your mother and sisters!"

Alexander glared down at the little alien hard enough to make even the most battle hardened turian cringe away, but this little salarian held his gaze and his ground. There were no weapons on him that Alexander could see, so he assumed the малютка had biotics of some sort.  
"I apologize for nearly ending your pathetic life with my boot." Alexander began in a professionally compliant tone, "Perhaps a worm such as yourself should grow a little more before going out alone."

With that Alexander pushed passed the halfling. He could feel the малютка glowering at his back. It would not be the first enemy of insignificance he'd made on his journey, and it would not be the last. Enemies do not concern him. After there was nothing left on the list but the crossed off names of dead men, there will be nothing left for him to live for. No amount of attornment could wash her blood off his hands. Nothing could bring her back. There was only justice and revenge now. His own. Much more blood of both the unavoidable innocent and the guilty would pay for that. Alexander's eyes grew harder and darker as he made another casual turn out of the the alley toward the bar. The flies were always buzzing there. Good sources of information, if not always completely reliable or truthful, occasionally lead in a promising direction... and he wanted a drink. Maybe a bottle of Earth vodka to remind him of his families home.


End file.
